


The Universe Stole My Sock

by TheMidnightOwl



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Batman: Europa - Freeform, Double Penetration, Fingering, Gay Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Threesome, blowjob, dear god i've created a monster, established batjokes, face fucking, jokercest, the first is whoever you want, the second joker is from europa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 04:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13942164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMidnightOwl/pseuds/TheMidnightOwl
Summary: It’s interesting, being the more experienced one, the one with total confidence in his ability to please his partner.  That is not how they started.  Now, though, now his Joker knows his every weakness, but he has a Joker virgin to his touch to dominate.  He may not be able to resist the allure of such a power imbalance.





	The Universe Stole My Sock

**Author's Note:**

> I'm horrified at myself but please enjoy the debauchery and sin.

Across existence, there are set rules.  Gravity, heat, conservation of matter, right and wrong.  However, being social constructs, right and wrong exist under a different heading.  For they are not facts, but truths.  Truths that exist across all sentient cultures throughout the multiverse.  Right and wrong, good and evil, they are theories.  Theories created by those who seek meaning in life, in actions, in consequences.  In theory, they are opposites.  In practice, life is never so simple.

Right now, Bruce’s truth is that he hates Joker.  The clown’s been on a high that has been terrible for Gotham’s infrastructure.  The only thing worse than the Joker in a bad mood is the Joker in a good mood.  Good moods mean explosives.  Okay, technically tonight’s explosives were fireworks, that were aimed at the sky for once (mostly), but he kidnapped a whole bunch of people to use as stands.  He duct taped the projectiles to their heads to light the fuse.  

Currently Bruce is giving chase.  When he starts to gain ground, Joker throws something over his shoulder; his personalized jacks, which he calls Jumping Jacks.  Made of razor sharp metal and spring loaded, stepping near them causes them to jump at you, ready to pierce cloth and skin.  Though they cannot do him harm from this, stepping on one could puncture his boot if at the right angle and force.  He dodges them all with ease.  Suddenly the clown turns right, so sharp Bruce nearly runs past.  He follows into the alley and - 

Joker’s gone?

He looks up.  No one on the fire escapes.  His sensors pick up no movement and he’s not hiding in the shadows.  He’s just gone.  Bruce walks to the alley’s outlet, looks left and right.  No signs.  He sets up a crime scene.  If magic or metaphysics were involved they could have left a trace, at least something to explain how he got away.

Nothing.

Flustered, he catalogues what he can, takes samples that might yield results back in the batcave, and takes to higher ground to canvas the streets.  Whether or not he finds Joker, there may still be others that need him while the sky is still dark.  He stops a robbery and a few muggings but no sign of Joker.  His stunt tonight required no others so Bruce has no one to go back to and interrogate.  

With dawn on the horizon, Bruce retreats to the cave.  His samples yield no results.  Security cameras in the area at that time captured nothing.  He sees them on the streets, he sees them where Joker took his unexpected turn, but neither of the cameras at that angle can see him after the switch.  In the one and one half seconds it took for Bruce to round that corner after him, the clown vanished.  Vanished as if he’d never been there at all.  

Exhausted, he pushes away from the computer and retires the batsuit.  The shower steams away some of the stress in his muscles, but does minimal damage to the mental stress.  He doesn’t like not having an answer.  He doesn’t like how perfect an escape that was.  That’s the sort of getaway Joker would brag about after.  Dare Bruce to figure it out and give him not a single hint.  Mock him if he ever made an incorrect guess.  Out loud or in the silence Joker can still read.  He tries to push all of it out of his head for the remainder of his shower.  He can goad it out of the clown with enough persuasion.

Toweling his hair dry, he makes for the elevator up to the manor.  Alfred will wake soon.  He smiles as he passes his bedroom.  As he approaches his own, his heart leaps.  The door opens, he steps in; Joker is not here waiting.  He leaves the door open.  It’s too early to be concerned, he tells himself.  Joker disappears all the time, even now.  He’ll be back when his victory gets boring.

His victory takes four nights to get boring.  

On the fourth night, Joker gasses a judge’s house.  Remarkably, that particular judge has never tried the Joker, but somehow Bruce doesn’t think that’s relevant.  Joker turns this into a rooftop chase.  Bruce is hot on his heels but those long, lean legs are fast.  He leaps across a gap he should not be able to clear, stumbling a little on the landing.  When they get to a gap towards a taller building, Joker stops and turns around.

“Good night, wasn’t it?” Joker asks.

Bruce punches him in the face.  “You murdered a family that has done nothing to you.”

Joker punches back and misses every swing.  “Ha!  What else is new?”

The dialogue stops as Bruce concentrates on subduing him.  After a few minutes of back and forth, Bruce lands a powerful hit to Joker’s diaphragm that puts him on his knees.  He punts him to the ground and goes for the cuffs.  His breath found again, Joker laughs into the dirt of the roof.  

“Not really in the mood to get arrested tonight, darling,” he says as Bruce cuffs him, “haven’t seen you in a while.  I brought a surprise for tonight.”  That makes Bruce stop.  He giggles.  “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

The ethics of their relationship is a heavy cause of cognitive dissonance.  He wants Joker to pay for his cruelty but when they kissed for the first time it breathed life into him he never realized he lost.  This isn’t the life his parents would have wanted for him.  This isn’t the partner they would have wanted for him.  But here he is, happier than he’s ever been, with a man that kills for fun.  This man is asking Bruce to let him go.  After murdering an innocent family.  No matter one’s take on the ethics of vigilantism, to let a murderer go after capturing them is unspeakable.  To do so would be immorally selfish.  This is not who Batman is, what he means. 

Bruce releases the cuffs.  Joker stands, rubbing his wrists, a grin on his face like the cat who ate the canary.  “See you tonight, Bats.”  

He takes two steps back and bounces off the edge of the roof.  Bruce launches after him.  His cape brakes the landing at the bottom.  Joker is gone.  Again.  He’s using some sort of teleportation device that leaves no energy signal and is small enough to hide on his person.  Where the hell he got that is secondary to him having it at all.  The ability to get away that easily is almost worse to consider than him being able to escape any prison or hospital.  

Bruce swears and punches the nearest wall.  If he’d known he never would have let Joker go.

Embarrassed and frustrated, he returns to the skies to watch over his home.  He squares off against Harvey.  In a rare moment of coordination the police manage to catch and arrest most of his gang members.  He loads Dent into the back of the squad car himself.  Both of his faces glare pure contempt.  Bruce’s gaze is equally hard, but not as genuine.  He doesn’t hate his sick enemies.  He wants them to get better.  But at this point its doubtful he’ll get any of them to truly see how much they need it.  He gave up on Joker long ago, even after their coupling.

With pre-dawn on the rise, Bruce turns in.  A text alert pings in his helmet; as usual Joker knows when Bruce is leaving.  The message is a single word, which now triggers warmth in his blood and desire in his body.  PENTHOUSE.

Situated next to Wayne Enterprises, the penthouse has a reputation that it did not need Bruce to design.  The story goes that Bruce Wayne’s downtown penthouse is his bachelor pad.  The penthouse is where he lives and the mansion is just for looks, and to store all his cars.  None of his one-night dates have ever been to the manor.  Nor the ones that saw him more than once.  The Wayne Penthouse is every man’s dream because there’s a new gorgeous woman in it every night, no strings attached.  Of all his playboy reputations, this one is his least favorite, but it keeps people from bothering him at home.

In reality he rarely uses the penthouse, apart from those mandatory Wayne Enterprises date nights.  It’s a poor location for a base of operations for Batman.  But also, Wayne Manor is his home.  The rational, sane part of his psyche says that entrusting Joker with a key to the penthouse’s private elevator is dumb as fuck.  The emotional side trusts him not to abuse it, and currently that side is winning.

There is no storage for the batsuit here.  The best way to ensure no one stumbles upon anything by snooping is to not have it there at all.  He’ll need to wait until nighttime to retrieve it, and make a careful exit, but nothing he hasn’t done before.  They’ve become quite good at this.

The elevator opens up to a foyer, dressed simply in white walls and brown tables.  He keeps his mother’s favorite vases out here, a gentle welcome for the starlets he no longer has the heart to sleep with.  He’s aware they don’t expect, or even want in some cases, more than one night.  It still feels wrong.  Despite its hypermasculine reputation, the penthouse is light, warm, and modest.  The sort of modern interior design his mother’s classical tastes might enjoy.  

The bedroom door is cracked.  When he pushes it open, it’s empty.  He removes the cowl and places it on the chair in the corner.  Section by section, piece by piece, he drags out the removal of the suit out, letting the debris clatter across the marble floor.  He strips the under armor off, just the top.  His skin breathes again and he takes a moment to enjoy the freedom.  

The shadows beneath the bathroom door shift.  Smirking, Bruce approaches the door on silent, practiced feet.  He pauses in front of the door, then pulls it open.  It’s empty.  How the _fuck?_

“Seeing things, Bats?”  A familiar, smug voice asks from behind him.

If purple and green were fashionable colors, Joker would be straight out of a men’s fashion magazine.  Hair tossed, lips ruby red, his signature three piece ensemble got a modern upgrade.  The pinstripes are gone, the spats are (finally) absent, the lines are sharper and complement his slim figure perfectly.  Bruce’s heart pounds.

Noticing his attention, Joker grins wider and holds out his arms, twisting to and fro.  “Like it?  I thought I was do for an upgrade.  Can’t keep giving people all the same all the time.  And no, this is not the surprise.”

“How have you been disappearing?” Bruce asks.

He stalks up to Bruce, predatory and giddy.  “Remember the last time you were drunk?  I do.  You said so many wonderful things.”  He runs a hand down Bruce’s bare chest, feeling the pounding of his heart.  “Gave me a lotta useful information about those bits of your brain you keep locked up the most.”  He circles, hand trailing across Bruce’s body.  A sigh of content from behind.  “The good, the really good, the _delicious.”_   

Bruce swallows thickly.  “You haven’t answered my question.”

Joker steps back in to view with his excited grace.  “Anomaly of the universe.  No seriously,” he defends against Bruce’s impatient stare, “when you were chasing me and I turned into that alley I went _poof!_   Felt funny and it stole one of my socks.  I liked those socks.”  Stopping, his hands run up, then down Bruce’s chest.  “Had absolutely no idea where I was.  At first everything looked the same but you weren’t behind me anymore and that certainly wasn’t right.  I waited for you to find me, I wasn’t done being chased.  But you never came.”  He tilts his head.  “Things didn’t look… quite right, when I got out of the alley.  Too bright.  Stuff was cleaner.  I didn’t know where to go so I went back to my place.”

His grin is feral, hungry.  Not quite the same smile he has when he’s about to murder someone but very close.  It chills Bruce’s spine.  He rises on his toes to whisper in Bruce’s ears.  “I found something I think we’ll both enjoy.”  He licks the shell of Bruce’s ear and gazes over his shoulder to the crack in the bathroom door.

The bathroom door swings open.  Bruce turns round on instinct.  His jaw nearly hits the floor.  Hair tossed and lips ruby red, the collar of his neon orange shirt is popped and the first three buttons undone.  The purple-and-pinstripe tailcoat is replaced by a plain one of a paler shade.  Spats gone, his shoes are blue, displaced from his color scheme in a way his Joker would never allow.  The Joker leans against the doorframe, ankles crossed and smirk boisterous.

Bruce stares.  Looks at Joker.  Then back at Joker.

“What…”

Joker drapes himself over Bruce’s shoulders, reveling in the contact.  He squeezes.  “Whatever ripple in time I tripped over put me in a parallel universe.  I guess you could say going home really helped me find myself.”  Both Jokers laugh.  Clown stereo.  Dear God.  “So we got to talking, as we do, and after a couple days of him showing me around his universe I figured it was only polite to offer him a tour of mine.”  He kisses Bruce’s neck.  “He didn’t believe me when I said you and I have been riding each other into the sunset for months.”

“Mmm, I lost a bet to myself,” the alternate says.

“I need a shower,” Bruce decides.  Joker releases him, and the alternate steps aside, blood red eyes drinking him in from head to toe as he passes.  His heart lurches.

“Have fun,” the alternate says, “don’t drop the soap.  Or rather, the Axe.”  Both Jokers giggle.  “Man could buy an island and he uses Axe body wash.”

Joker climbs the first step up to take the alternate’s hand.  “He was raised by a modest Brit.  Hush now, let him enjoy his stress shower.”  He flashes a wicked eye in Bruce’s direction.  “I’m sure we can find a way to entertain ourselves in the meantime.”

Bruce closes the door so they can’t see any more of his horrified expression.  Now he has to trust two Jokers not to destroy his space.  Sighing, he rubs his hands down his face.  The shower hisses to life.  The remainder of his clothes pool on the floor.  A single moment of clarity makes him put them in the hamper.  The water is warm, nectar for his aching back, but not warm enough.  He cranks the heat and changes the spray setting to beat his tense muscles free.  He scrubs the sweat and grime of the city off.  The soap burns a shallow cut on his bicep.  Already closed; he barely notices.  

He shuts off the spray and towels dry.  He’s exhausted, but Joker is wide awake and excited; he’ll not be getting any sleep for a while yet.  He leans on the counter to look at himself.  He does this sometimes on nights with Joker.  Looking for his justification, looking for shame or embarrassment, for fear or hesitation or disgust or anything that could mean he should call the whole thing off.  Every time, he sees none.  Whether that is good or bad depends on what day you ask.

He wraps a towel around his waist.  Chin up, he exits the bathroom.  The Jokers are sitting cross-legged on the bed, facing each other and hunched over... a game?

“B 17,” Joker says.

“Ha!  Miss!  E 9.”

“Cheater!”  Joker throws game pieces at his twin.

“What are you doing,” Bruce deadpans.

“Battleship!”  They say in unison.  Joker continues, “I’m kicking his firm white booty but he just sunk one of my three-hitters.  Hmmm... right when you showed up.  Suspicious.”

Bruce eyes the alternate, his game set, the patterns of the pins.  “He’s moving his pieces.”

“I am most certainly not,” he raises his hands with a voice that says he most certainly is.

Joker pushes his board to the side and jumps on the alternate.  They laugh and wrestle.  Bruce watches, frozen in place and warm in his cheeks.  The alternate bites Joker’s hand, adding teeth to their quarrel.  When he bites the alternate’s jaw, the laughter is laced with enjoyment.  Joker takes advantage by rolling them over, establishing dominance.  The alternate still fights, but the fight is mostly in his hips.  Joker’s laughter is turning airy itself.  Their movements are mostly hips and grip now.  The alternate raises his head to bite Joker in a spot Bruce is intimately familiar with.  The resulting moan leaves no doubt of the turn this tussle has taken.

Joker looks up at him.  His smile is hungry.  “Care to join?”

Bruce’s whole face is on fire.  “I’d rather not be dragged in to further insanity.”

Both Jokers laugh.  The alternate says, “if you really didn’t want that you wouldn’t have dressed up like a bat.”  He stretches his neck backwards far as he can.  “And you especially would not have started taking _me_ home.”

“But,” Joker rolls his shoulders and hips, “suit yourself.  More for me.”  He captures his twin’s mouth, not hesitating to use tongue.  The alternate licks back and starts the chorus of mutual sounds of pleasure.  The alternate’s arms are around Joker’s neck, but his hands can’t stay still for long.  They cling to his shoulders, cup his face, his neck, where his nails press in to the bite mark.  Joker grins against his mouth at that.  The motions of his hips increase in speed and force.

Bruce turns away to get dressed.  He’s not getting dragged in to this.  His arousal disagrees.  Ignore it.  And them.

“You’re handling your clothes the wrong way, Batsy,” one of them calls, so smug he wants to turn around and sass back.  But that’s what they want.  So instead, he does nothing.  The giggling behind him intensifies.  He can’t tell if it’s both or only one that keeps talking.  When they’re not moaning.  It’s gotten a little performative.  

“Aw, look, he’s trying to ignore us.  Sweetie, when has that ever worked?  Look, he’s all red.  Come on, Bats, have a little fun.”

“Hey?  Remember when I asked you if you remembered what you said when you were drunk that one time?”

_“He_ got drunk?”

“I know.  You wanna know what you said when you were drunk, honeycakes?”  He can’t hold back the self-satisfied laugh.  “You said you wished it were possible to, and I quote, fuck two of me.”  A pause.  “Now’s your chance, darling.  I’d jump on us before he has to go home to court his own Bat.”

They’re finally done talking.  When he turns with the intent of leaving them to it, he accidentally catches color and movement in his peripherals.  Years of training turn his head.

Joker is sitting up on his knees, straddling his clone.  His jacket is gone and the alternate just parted and discarded his waistcoat.  When the shirt is unbuttoned, Joker shrugs it off in that way he knows drives Bruce mad.  The alternate runs his hands up from the hem of his pants to the lines of his ribs.  Joker grins down at him.

“Oh, he’s gotten you good, hasn’t he?” The alternate says in awe.  He traces scars with his index fingers and thumbs.  Bruce can feel the ghosts of them on his own.  Smooth pieces of marred flesh, some raised off the skin, some not.  Most by Bruce’s hand.  

Joker bends, allowing the alternate’s hands to move up around his ribs.  Joker steals a kiss, then whispers against his lips, sultry and smooth.  “Mm, he does me _so_ good.”  That voice goes straight to Bruce’s groin.

As they reseal their passionate kiss, Joker unbuttons the alternate’s shirt.  No waistcoat.  The jacket and shirt fly off the bed.  Bruce can’t stop staring.  Not when more pearl white skin emerges, equal in color and abundance of scars, not when Joker’s practiced hand rips the alternate’s pants and underwear off in one shot, not when he straightens his spine again to give easy access to his zip.  Long, nimble fingers pick at the front of his pants until  his cock is free.  The alternate goads him forward by his hips.  Knees framing his shoulders, the alternate takes Joker in his mouth.  Joker throws his head back and moans deep, a smile of relief on his face.  

“Oh fuck,” he cries, “I know why you can’t let me do this for long.”  The alternate has to pull away to laugh.  Joker rests two fingers under his chin and uses them to guide his mouth back where he wants it.  The alternate licks the underside of the head, massaging before reclaiming.  Joker’s hands bury themselves in full, soft hair.  

Bruce doesn’t need to hear it to know the alternate just keened.  He’s felt it before.  His cock twitches in its cotton prison.  Hard to deny how much this affects him if Joker looks over but his attention is, for perhaps the first time ever, not on his Bat.

The alternate pulls off with an emphasized slurp.  “Change,” he pants, “I want you to fuck my mouth.”

Bruce’s sanity breaks.

He stalks across the room to them.  Joker looks up in time to be grabbed by the neck and pulled to his feet.  He is divested of his pants and shoved back onto the bed.  Taking the alternate’s thighs, Bruce yanks him closer, legs dangling off the edge before spinning him round.  He snaps and points.  Both of them are too stunned and excited to protest.  The alternate rolls over and rests his head at the edge of the mattress.  His feet kick in the air in excitement.  Bruce pulls Joker into alignment; the alternate’s jaw drops.

“Move.”

Joker obeys and slides in with a purr.  His hips rock slow and gentle.  Graceful as a dancer, Joker’s arms snake behind him, hooking around Bruce’s neck.  He cranes his neck to pull his Bat into a kiss.  Gentle at first, like they always are.  A sound almost like a squeak comes from the alternate.  Bruce licks his way between soft, painted lips.  A wave of relaxation racks Joker’s whole body and he nearly falls forward; he recovers quick.  Bruce grip moves to Joker’s hips, feeling the steady rhythms as they travel up Joker’s body.  Goading him faster.  Pulling away, Joker holds his gaze as he thrusts.  Studying.  Analyzing.  Daring.  Pleading.  Offering.

Abruptly, Joker pulls out.  His clone whines in protest.  “I am not letting this end yet,” he grins, voice hoarse.  Bruce bites Joker’s bottom lip.  Those dangerous teeth scrape his own when he leans in to it.  “So, what have you fantasized about alone at 2am with your right hand and memories of me?”

“You shutting up.”  Both Jokers erupt in self-satisfied laughter.  The alternate rolls on to his back, eyeing them from upside down and putting his form on full display.  His moves to sprawl out on the mattress.  Right now, Bruce could choose total control and both would obey.  Or, he could give them a reason to push back. 

“The more important question is, which of us is going to break?”

Both of their faces alight in shock and awe.  The clone cranes his neck further to look at Joker.  “Probably me, let’s be serious.  But,” he locks eyes with Bruce and grins.  “Challenge accepted.”

“Hmmm,” the gravel in Joker’s voice mean trouble.  “There’s an idea.”  He meets Bruce’s stare.  The explanation is wordless.  

Angling himself, Bruce scoops the alternate up with one arm and carries him to the head of the mattress.  With a surprised yelp, the clone’s legs wrap around his waist and squeeze.  _Fuck_ , does he love that.  The power of those long, smooth legs clinging to him like the world might be slipping away.  Different universe, same damnable legs sculpted from whatever God personally oversees Bruce’s libido.  He deposits the twin on the pillows, prisoner between his knees.  He discards his own shirt with haste.  His skin is radiating heat, warming the air with his controlled desperation.  The alternate is staring up at him, mouth agape, eyes black.  He still clings to Bruce’s waist with all his strength.

Ignoring the alternate’s swelling cock, flat against his abdomen, Bruce runs his hands up and down his sides, swiping across his chest at will.  Rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger sometimes, others squeezing the firm muscle where thigh meets buttocks.  A tease to both of them.  The man beneath him is shivering and gleaming with sweat already.  Memories of nights that ended too soon, needing to soothe Joker down from overstimulation threatens his confidence; but no, there are warning signs.  Only hunger.

It’s interesting, being the more experienced one, the one with total confidence in his ability to please his partner.  That is not how they started.  Bruce, never having been with a man before, was nearly wrecked by nerves and self doubt their first night.  And second.  And third, somewhat.  Sometimes he still worries, but Joker is always happy to reassure him how well he’s doing with such rewarding sounds.  Now, though, now he’s drunk on the power imbalance, and he might not be able to resist.

He tests the alternate’s resolve with a quick kiss.  His mouth open in shock, Bruce descends and claims.  When the twin responds with fervor and desperation, he pulls away and shakes his head.  “Slow.  Enjoy it.”  His lips tickle the shell of an ear, “we’ve got time.”

He starts again, and this time it’s what it should be.  Sensual and deep and honest.  There’s hunger too, but pushed down in favor of love, because fuck, does Joker love him.  And it’s in his kiss every time.  Passion and devotion unlike any he’s ever felt.  In himself included.  Sometimes it intimidates him, the idea that no matter what, Joker will always love him more.  He tries to give as much as he gets but oh does it weigh on him.  

Now, though, now he is not worried, because the creature trapped below him is responding with trembling limbs and fevered skin.  Arms wrap around his neck and he responds by joining their hips.  He moves in small, frustrating motions that rack shudders through the body below.  The single layer of cotton still between them is maddening.  When he breaks to trail kisses down his neck, the twin keens a broken “fuck, Bats.”

Behind him, he hears Joker giggle.  The memory foam does not dip with Joker’s weight but he still feels his approach.  “Aw, I think you broke him already.”  

“Pity,” Bruce mocks, “I haven’t done anything yet.”

Sitting up on his elbows, the alternate laughs a challenge.  “Such hubris for the only one still wearing clothes.  No need to be shy, darling.”  His smile is innocence tipped with danger.

A hand slides up Bruce’s back; the other caresses down his chest and abdomen, having to reach around a leg.  “Oh, he’s a clever one,” Joker’s voice in his ear is honey and murder, “he’ll drive you to the brink of insanity before giving himself any attention.  It’s quite romantic, actually.” Devilish fingers dip into his waistband.  “You have to remind him of his own needs.”

The first touch to his cock almost makes him lose his composure.  Joker’s hands are soft from freshly applied expensive-as-hell moisturizer.  Lightly perfumed and infused with spider silk specifically to set Bruce’s sense memory on fire.  When Joker knows the night is going to end in sex - or when he wants it to end in sex - his hands are soft and smooth and desperate for something to stroke.  The scent is a Pavlovian high for Bruce.  A mouth claims his neck, bites and sucks a mark into his burning skin. 

“Don’t make me cut these off of you, Bats.  I like them.”

Attuned to his mirrored self, the alternate releases Bruce’s hips so he can somewhat gracelessly remove the last of his clothes.  He swallows the saliva building in his mouth from the sight of the Bat’s cock - thick and curved and red hot.  Pre cum sits in a bead on the tip and drips with his movement.  Joker kisses the Bat’s shoulder and gives him a few delicate, teasing pumps.  Unable to do anything else, the alternate laughs.

“Every wet dream I’ve ever had pales in comparison,” his voice squeaks on “pales.”  Both of them smirk.  

Bruce caresses his way up the inside of the clone’s legs, leaning down as he goes.  Joker mimes from one side until he’s propped up on the pillows eye-level with his twin.  Whose full attention is on the Bat.  

“How many is that, exactly?” Bruce taunts, inches away from his face.  His pupils are blown to hell, no green left.  Joker starts sucking a bruise into his neck.

Slowly, as if worried the Bat will fly away, he raises his hands to touch Bruce’s face.  Stubble scratches his skin.  One hand moves to his neck.  “Every night, batty boy,” he sighs, still managing to sound gravelly.

“Yeesh,” Joker pipes up, “sounds exhausting.  You really should give him a hand with that, Bats.”

Bruce looks down - more to entice than to see what he’s doing - and guides his ministrations back down.  First, only grazing the alternate’s swollen cock; then, he wraps it in his fingers, and after a few feather light strokes he grips as tight as he knows Joker likes and watches.

The clone keens and throws his head back.  When he attempts to reach for Bruce again Joker seizes his wrists and pins them above his head.  Then resumes bruising his neck with his mouth.  With their pale skin, the bruise will be there for weeks.  

Bruce’s free hand joins Joker’s, supporting himself so he can lean in again and take the twin’s mouth captive in his own.  The other’s surprised yelp becomes a desperate moan, which Bruce uses to lick his way in.  The sound vibrates on his tongue as the alternate struggles to keep up.  Bruce massages the frenulum with his thumb just as Joker bites down and he immediately stops and squeezes the base.  The alternate breaks the kiss to sob out a laugh.  

“Ho ho, if I came here to die then I’m having a hell of a time.”

Joker produces a bottle of lube, waggling it in the alternate’s face.  “Hell’s in trouble ‘cause it’s about to get wet in here.”

The alternate laughs while Bruce stares.  “That was… terrible.”

“Wasn’t it, though?”  Joker agrees.  “‘Scuse me a minute sweetie but it’s my turn.”  

They trade places, Joker unfolding to lay flat on the bed, Bruce sitting up next to the alternate.  Bruce plays with familiar soft hair.  His other hand roams the alternate’s body again, caressing his neck, his shoulders, his chest, giving attention to his nipples again.  The alternate leans into his touch.  When Bruce scratches a scar or digs an erogenous zone, he giggles.  

Meanwhile Joker is between his legs, slicking his fingers with lube.  He teases the alternate’s hole for a moment before pushing in, slow and steady, feeling around the walls.  The giggling from above increases.  When he adds a second finger he starts licking at skin, taking one ball inside his mouth and then the other.  He adjusts his position to lick the shaft, never taking it in his mouth.  He rewets his fingers and adds a third, pushing deeper and faster.  Bruce lets him hold Joker’s head this time.  

“That’s real good, gorgeous,” the alternate says with dreams in his voice, “but I’m no flower.”

Joker removes his fingers, perhaps too fast.  His grin is vicious.  “Flower?  No no no.  You’re game.”  Sitting up, he kneels between the alternate’s legs.  “A prize.”  He flips the alternate onto his stomach.  Bruce pushes the pillows away to mirror Joker’s movements.  Joker tugs his hips, Bruce his shoulders, until he’s on his hands and knees.  “Dare I say,” the two line up.  Realization dawns on the alternate’s face and all he can go is gape at the cock in front of him, mouth watering in a silent plea.  

“Prey.”

Joker’s ruthless breach is a stark contrast to Bruce’s gentle glide.  He more falls in to place than moves with deliberation.  The alternate takes him as far as he can, moaning in wanton bliss from the sensory explosion.  He sucks and bobs his head, while trying to push back against Joker.  It’s awkward and strains his neck but he _does not care._   The Bat tastes divine, the girth of his cock stretching his lips and jaw.  The weight on his tongue is heavenly sinful and he does his best to time his movements with Joker’s to keep the rhythm consistent.  He looks up and begs with lust-hazed eyes for Bruce to take over.

Bruce smiles, fond yet condescending, and brushes the hair out of the alternate’s face.  “He looks like you did.”

Joker laughs.  “What a sight.  Hey!”  He slaps his twin’s ass, amused by the jiggling of flesh.  “If he can talk you’re not doing it right.”

“Go easy on him,” Bruce coos, that condescension in his voice now, “it’s his first time.”

When he can’t properly shake his head, the alternate pulls off of Bruce and responds, hoarse.  “I told you I ain’t no flower, _bat boy._   Fuck me like you hate me or just let me watch and do it _myself_.”

“Ya hear that, Bats?”  Joker slams in to the hilt.  The alternate buckles.  “He thinks you don’t hate him.”

Bruce pulls the alternate’s mouth back to his cock.  His pliant mouth opens on instinct and Bruce slides in again, then out, and back, still with his hands holding his head.  Both Jokers are still as Bruce takes just a little for himself.  Not hard, not fast, slow and sensual and, Joker knows, paying close attention.  The alternate groans after the first thrust, so loud that Joker can hear it from where he’s still buried inside.  He watches, enraptured, as Bruce’s head falls back and he sighs.  He is nothing if not consistent; a master of perfect rhythm.  The tiny gasps and twitch of his lips is Joker’s nectar of life.  Beneath him, the alternate trembles.  Not from muscle strain.

Taking the alternate’s hips, Joker starts again, timing with Bruce, building gradually to his previous rhythm.  Heart on fire, Joker pulls Bruce forward for a kiss.  The alternate chokes under them and it makes Joker grin.  The kiss doesn’t break, only builds, lips and tongues giving and getting.  Until the clone’s noises are no longer from pleasure.  There is horror on Bruce’s face Joker wants to snuff when he hastily pulls out.  Not a scrape from the clone’s teeth.

“Please,” he pants, hoarse and desperate, “let me watch.”

Laughter overtakes Joker again, and together they flip the clone onto his back.  His arms reach backward, trying to guide Bruce’s hips back where he so urgently needs them.  Once back inside, they waste no time resuming their passion.  The alternate tenses and moans, tightening his grip on Bruce’s flesh.  He can actually feel the man salivating.  He grunts into Joker’s mouth, who responds by sucking his tongue, grazing with his teeth just once.

The body they’re sharing spasms.  They part again as they both look down in time to see the parallel cum, untouched, gripping Bruce’s ass like a vice and crying out around his cock.  The vibration threatens to send him over the edge, too.  Bruce pulls out to let him breathe.

_“Fuck,”_ the alternate huffs, both satisfied and frustrated.  “Apologies, that wasn’t supposed to happen.  Give me ten minutes.”

Joker cackles.  _“Ten minutes?_   Give me a booty plug and a remote control and I’ll have you up again in thirty seconds.”

Bruce dances around the clone, scooping Joker up and handling him so he ends up on top.  Joker grins down at him, all teeth and claws.  “I think we can find a way to entertain ourselves for ten minutes,” Bruce teases.

“Mmmm,” Joker purrs, “how painful do we make it?”

Joker is in reach for a spanking so that’s what Bruce does.  He yelps, that damn smile never leaving his lips.  “More painful than that, darling.”

Bruce rolls his eyes fondly, kissing back when Joker leans down.  He massages the spot he slapped, then aims down, spreading the cheeks sometimes but never using his fingers.  Joker’s cock twitches, trapped between their stomachs.  Joker giggles around his tongue.

He can feel the alternate watching them.  The stillness says it all.  Though he’ll never admit it out loud, he does enjoy a little theatricality.  Just a little.  Sometimes.  So he dramatizes his actions; grips harder, wraps his arms around his partner, strokes as much skin as possible.  Joker is catching on, rutting a bit and vocalizing louder.  Eventually the alternate laughs.

“Look at you two,” he sighs, “putting on such a show for lil’ ole me.”  He crawls on his hands and knees, arching his back, more feline than Selina in her element.  “I think, this show should include a little audience participation.”

Joker raises his head just enough to speak.  “What do you think, Bats, should we let him?”  Bruce only brushes Joker’s hair out of his face, tucks it behind his ear though it’s too short.  He shrugs.  “Sorry, toots, we’re having a moment.”

His twin whines, but begrudgingly obeys.  Joker sits up somewhat to grip both of their cocks in his hand, stroking slow and steady.  Bruce’s breath hitches; he grins.  Tightens his grip, but maintains pace.  Bruce hums in to his mouth.  He tries to help, but Joker actually swats his hand away.  Bruce spanks him again, and he has to break to laugh.

“Darling, I can’t have us waiting _again,”_ Joker mumbles against his mouth, and separates his words with a quick peck.  “Unless you’re game for the whole night.”

“Why not,” Bruce whispers, and returns the peck.  Joker’s quiet laughter is sinful.  

The sound of skin against skin makes them both turn their eyes.  The alternate is masturbating.  Joker stretches his spine out straight, then arches, enjoying the pops that follow.  He reaches behind him and uses Bruce’s calf for support as he continues his motions.  

“Like watching a home movie, isn’t it?” Joker taunts.  “All the content but none of the fun.”

“It _could_ be,” the alternate grumbles.  His cock is starting to harden again.

“Could,” Joker agrees, shaking his head to get the sweat-slick curls out of his eyes, “but you went and, ah, blew it.”

His twin lunges.  They end up in a heap of tangled legs; Bruce kicks free of their tussle, amused.

“No, I’m _trying_ to blow something,” the alternate mocks, “and you’re in my way.”

“Is that so?”  Joker flips them over and pins him in four spots.  “That’s funny, ‘cause I could say the same for you.”

Bruce wraps his arms around Joker from behind, gently pulling him off his twin.  “Boys,” he says into Joker’s neck, “there’s plenty to go around.”

The alternate groans, licking his lips.  “So much.”

Bruce latches on to Joker’s neck again, and takes his cock in hand, pumping slow and sensual as he did before.  “We’re supposed to be having fun.”

When Joker is plotting, he has a certain energy.  The levels of his physicality are endlessly fascinating to Bruce.  He studies them as often as possible, in an attempt to understand this impossible creature.  Right now he feels that mischievous energy ripple up Joker’s spine.  He kisses a vertebra in anticipation, his arousal fully restored.

“Yes,” Joker says.  He leaves Bruce’s warm embrace, and gestures for his twin to replace him.  The alternate hesitates before obeying, and Bruce holds him in the same way.  One hand on his cock, the other around his collar.  He pumps slow and sensual.  The alternate melts in to him with an adorable squeak.  Bruce kisses his neck and he melts even more.  

Joker approaches and captures his clone’s mouth.  He takes his twin’s hands, and pulls up and back so they wrap around Bruce’s neck in a sort of double embrace.  He wants to crush them all together, but Bruce is doing necessary work so he refrains.  Instead he focuses on reestablishing dominance over his alternate self.  This is his game.

The kiss breaks when Bruce disappears before either of them can process his movement.  Joker is shoved down by a firm hand between his shoulder blades.  He catches himself over his twin’s face.  They grin, imagining their expressions of lust and anticipation are the same.  The twin tries to peek around Joker.  “Whatcha up to over there, Bats?”

“Hush.”  He adjusts the alternate’s legs, taking the chance to stroke them, feel their wiry strength.

Both chuckle.  “If you wanted me quiet you shouldn’t have left.”

“Oh, that’s him.  He’s silent as a mouse but I can promise you one thing,” he licks a stripe up his twin’s face to his eye, “he _loves it_ when I scream.”  

Cupping his face, his twin pulls him down for a kiss.  The taste of both his Bat and _himself_ in someone else’s mouth - that is also his own - sets every narcissistic nerve in his body on fire.  The body below him is gleaming like a pearl in the moon from the sweat and the lust.  Joker lowers himself until their chests are flush.  The angle makes him slip out, but he ruts still, desperate for friction.  His clone giggles as the movement rubs his cock trapped between them.  Hands snake up his back, touching everywhere, trailing red marks with his nails.  Joker dares him with his tongue to draw blood.

When two slick fingers enter him from behind, he says nothing.  Only grins into the kiss, which his twin mirrors, and suddenly they’re more nipping with teeth and lips than kissing.  He pins his twin at the wrists above his head and bites the bruise on his neck.  The clone laughs out a moan.  Joker ruts harder to the secret rhythm of Bruce’s fingers, now three.  His twin is mewling, the friction not enough.  

Bruce takes Joker by his neck.  “Up,” he commands.  Joker fights a little just to feel Bruce’s strength.  Bruce manhandles them into position, the alternate’s legs spread in invitation, Joker between them.  But the angle isn’t right, and Joker’s squirming isn’t helping.  Amused, the alternate reaches behind himself and throws a pillow in Joker’s face.  Joker laughs and hits back with the pillow.  Bruce takes him by the neck again, one hand on his throat, one on his wrist; a silent, lustful smile twists Joker’s lips.

“Concentrate,” Bruce commands into the skin of his neck.  He licks from shoulder to jaw, ending with a sharp bite.  It is the clone that keens.

The alternate lifts up so Joker can put the pillow under his hips.  He assumes position again, grinning down at his mirrored self.  Firm, calloused hands take his hips in a vice.  

“Go.”

The familiar stretch of his Bat’s cock is like coming home.  The tight channel of his twin is something new. Not entirely, but it’s been a while.  And Batsy’s not ready yet.  The two sources of pleasure are almost too much.

“Ohhhh, Bats,” he says, “How lucky we both are.”

He lets Bruce set the rhythm.  Moving as one with him is natural.  Sometimes he leans down to bite at his clone, sometimes his clown cranes his neck to try and bite back.  But with his wrists still pinned above his head, he doesn’t succeed much.  

Bruce rests flush against Joker’s back, thrusting faster.  The rhythm is thrown off for a moment.  Bruce buries his face and the crook of Joker’s shoulder, breathing him in, getting high off the citrusy-acid scent, the sodium of his sweat, hormones and lust and love, always love.  He licks and bites, owning, claiming, drinking salt and sex from his lover’s flesh.  He always wants more.  Never enough.  Tonight, however, he has two. 

“Aw, look, Bats,” Joker coos, heavy with condescension, “I think he’s ready to burst.”

Bruce peers over Joker’s shoulder.  The alternate is flushed pink from head to toe, eyes closed in bliss, panting.  His cock is damn near purple where it rests flat against his abdomen, pre-cum dripping down to the sheets.

“Mercy, me” Joker says, sultry and dangerous.  He stops moving.  Bruce reaches around him, left hand claiming his abdomen and the other wrapping around the alternate’s cock.  He mewls and shudders; overstimulated.  Bruce loosens his grip, strokes slow and careful.  Joker strokes up and down the alternate’s stomach, as Bruce does with him.  When he cums, it’s a soft cry, and tears run down the sides of his face.  He’s trembling furiously; Joker stops his ministrations.

“I think we broke him,” Joker says.

His twin laughs; breathless, exhausted, post intoxicated.  “If I have to die,” he pants, “there’s only two ways I’d do it.”  He opens one eye.  “That was both.”

Joker laughs, triumphant.  Behind him, Bruce chuckles, too.  The hand on Joker’s stomach migrates across his chest and up to his shoulder.  Sitting back, he lifts, Joker sliding out of his twin while Bruce stays buried inside.  Joker giggles and melts under his touch.

The third party vanishes from Bruce’s mind.  His mate is here, glistening with sweat and marked all over.  Some marks his, some not, all of them burn hot behind his ears.  He kisses whatever skin he can reach, hugs tight and breathes once.  Then Joker rocks his hips, and he knows it’s time to go to work.

Finding his grip, he thrusts up and in.  Joker moves with him, coming off his lap a little to slam back down.  They work together to keep the rhythm.  His hands roam over the body he claims, digging nails into the scars that pleasure his partner most.  Or he grips Joker’s hips to drive the movement.  Or he teases Joker’s nipples, never with pressure.  It drives his clown mad.

Joker is panting.  His cries are high and light, like his alternate self.  Bruce spins him around on his lap without pulling out, recovers the rhythm quickly.  It’s the eyes.  Joker always wants his eyes.  He steals a kiss first; Joker forgets to breathe.

“Fuck, Bats,” he begs when they part.

Bruce, supporting all of Joker’s weight, slams up in to him.  He nips at Joker’s lips, not breaking eye contact.  One rough tug on his cock is all he needs to send Joker over the edge.  He cums with a high pitched cry that ends on a laugh.  It takes him so long to finish that Bruce is almost concerned.

“You made a fucking mess,” he almost-laughs.

Joker is cackling now.  He waggles his eyebrows.  “You gonna make me clean it up with my tongue?”

Bruce slams him down on the mattress, next to the gaping alternate.  His Joker instinctively wraps his legs around Bruce’s waist and flexes.  Through it all, Bruce remains inside him.  He presses on, hard and heavy but still observing.  Joker moans and sighs, caressing his Bat everywhere he can reach, flexing and relaxing just to tease.  Bruce kisses him like the world around them is crumbling and Joker kisses back like he’s crumbling the world around them.  Hair a mess, gleaming with sweat, eyes dilated to black, brain a mess of primal instinct, his Bat is beautiful.  So beautiful Joker’s heart aches, and longs.

He pulls Bruce down for one last kiss, the one he knows will give him release.  Not primal, not lustful, not world-shattering.  He kisses his Bat like he loves him, deep and tender with a plea on his tongue.  

One more thrust and then, with a loud grunt, Bruce stills.  His whole abdomen contracts, spilling in to Joker, moaning uncharacteristically loud and hips twitching.  He collapses in a heap and squeezes Joker in to him with his whole body.  Joker grips back, and massages his scalp.  Bruce is kissing his throat, quiet and still, as if he doesn’t want the alternate to hear.

When his breathing evens out, he rolls, and takes Joker with him.  They end with Bruce on his back, Joker’s head on the crook of his shoulder, in a loose embrace.  Joker nuzzles further in to him, sighing and grinning like a pampered kitten.  Bruce is grinning, too, warm and affectionate and drunk on hormones.  

And Joker can’t see it.  Never sees it.  He doesn’t need to.  But his alternate self?  The one still yearning?  He needs to.  His lips part in disbelief.

Bruce catches him staring, smiles peacefully, and beckons him forward.  Tentatively, the alternate crawls to his side, wary of Joker’s territorial eye.  He settles in, presenting a perfect mirror image between the two.  Bruce tilts his head back, amused.

“I feel like a playboy right now,” he jokes.

Joker laughs.  “‘Bout time you earned that title.  Not that I’m encouraging you to keep going.”

He turns his attention to the second Joker, still trembling and looking like terrified prey.  “You okay?”

He nods.  “It’s… a lot to take in.”

Bruce kisses his hair, feels him shiver from head to toe.  “Yeah, I remember.”

Joker reaches to pet his twin’s face.  “You must be exhausted, hot stuff.  Our first night together wasn’t nearly this crowded.”  His eyes, and grin, are wicked.

The alternate notices.  “Mm, yes.  I know the plan was for me to go straight home, but,” he yawns dramatically, “I’d appreciate sleep first.”

They both look up at Bruce, batting their eyelashes.  “Whadaya think, Bats?”  His Joker asks, “you still okay with sharing?”

Having that look from both sides is too damn funny.  He sighs dramatically.  “Well, considering I can never get you to sleep-”

“-Hypocrite.”

Bruce looks at his insufferable lover.  “Considering I can never get you to sleep,” he turns back to the alternate, “I think I should let you when you ask for it.”

The alternate bites his lips in a failed effort to control his gleeful smile.  He snuggles in closer and ogles his twin across the expanse of the Bat’s large, strong chest, still glistening in sweat that is positively exquisite.  Joker grins back, waggling his eyebrows.  They each throw an arm across Bruce’s chest, wrists crossing.  Joker pulls his leg up between Bruce’s as he always does.

“One question, first,” Bruce says.  They both look up and hum.  “How the hell did you get here.”

The parallel laughs.  “You wanna explain?”

“Oh I’d much prefer to let it nag at him for a few months first,” Joker says dreamily.  He can feel his Bat’s irritation under his ear, and kisses whatever he can reach.

“I would too, but I’d quite like to stay here.

“He’s not gonna kick you out.  He doesn’t have the heart.  Or rather, does.”

Bruce shakes his head.  “How.”

Joker stretches and adjusts his position, petulant.  “I told you, the universe ate one of my socks.”

The alternate giggles.  “We don’t know how he got to my world.  But he knows the password to your trophy room so we, ah, _borrowed_ something from my Batsy’s collection.  Who’da thought you’d be _universally_ predictable.”  They both share the self satisfied laugh.

Bruce tries to think.  “Which was it?”

Joker shrugs.  “Some necklace thing.  Bit garish.  I kept it in my pocket.  Couldn’t be seen with that travesty ruining my ensemble.”

It takes him a moment but he remembers.  His head falls back in exasperation and he mentally curses both of them.  “I’m locking you out of the cave.”

“No you’re not.”

The alternate giggles.  “You two are adorable.  I wonder if we will be.”  He hesitates.  Bruce feels the trepidation in it.  _If._

He kisses the alternate’s hair again.  “You will.  Universally predictable, remember?”  The way his heart flutters and pounds against Bruce’s skin warms him to his bones.  Universally responsive.  “Please put that necklace back.  It’s not supposed to be used without the cuffs.”

“Mm, and you do so enjoy cuffing me.”  The alternate’s whole body shakes with his amusement.  “I can’t wait to tell my you what you-you did.”

Bruce chuckles.  “I’m sure he’ll love the mental image.”  He scratches the alternate’s head in The Spot.  It earns him purrs.  “Go to sleep.”  Then, just because, he tilts his Joker’s chin up to kiss him goodnight.

In the morning the alternate Joker will be gone, back to his own world to court his own Bat.  For his sake, Bruce hopes his promise was not a lie.  It wasn’t an easy journey, but they belong together, the Batman and the Joker, Bruce and Jay; they need each other.  Though he may never admit it aloud, Joker was always right about that.  They got through the rocky parts.  They’ve figured it out.  Whatever other universes exist, for their sakes, he hopes they find each other and make it work.  It’s all he can do, really.  All anyone can ever do.

Bruce forces himself to stay awake, to watch the alternate fall asleep.  Like his own, he falls asleep with a smile, exhausted.  He’s wrapped around Bruce like he’s afraid he’ll leave.  Eventually Joker falls asleep, in a similar fashion.  Always like Bruce might leave.

He won’t.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far good for you! I appreciate any feedback or quick comment! I never know if I'm doing porn right x.x


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